The Ruling Sea

by Robert V. S. Redick

  “Usually?”

  “Well, it’s not as if you’re perfect, mate.”

  “I see,” said Neeps crisply. “Not as if I’ve got a magic gift, is that it?”

  “Come off it,” said Pazel.

  “That’s what you’re thinking. Why trust him? It’s just his natural brain at work.”

  “You are making me worry about your brain, that’s a fact,” said Pazel.

  “At least mine doesn’t turn me into a dry-heaving rooster every month or—”

  “Stop it!” said Thasha. “You’re driving me mad!”

  The boys clammed up at once. Thasha turned back furiously to the window. The last of the supply boats had drawn alongside; stevedores were piling goods onto cargo lifts. They had taken on more food and water—and scandalously, more passengers, five or six poor souls bound for Etherhorde—the better to sustain the illusion that they were making for the Arquali capital. Who were those people? How much had they paid? When would they find out that they were never going to arrive?

  She heard again her father’s words in the Cactus Gardens. You’re all I have left, Thasha. I can’t watch you die before me as she did.

  “Find Hercól,” she said. “Bring him quickly. Please.”

  “Do you think the letter’s real?” Pazel asked.

  “Daddy wrote it, if that’s what you mean,” she said. “And those tactics, and the way he blames himself, and that bit about completing the mission no matter the cost—it’s exactly what I’d expect from him. And there’s the star.”

  She touched it with a finger, drew a deep breath. “There’s only one thing I’m sure of: Daddy has to be told that I’m alive. Maybe he’s right—maybe he shouldn’t come with us. But it would be heartless to sail off and leave him in the dark.”

  When the tarboys were gone, Thasha pulled a trunk from beneath her bed and removed her training gloves. They were ugly things, iron gauntlets with wool padding over the knuckles and rusted chain looped tight about the wrists. Hercól had wanted them tight, and heavy. A hundred shadow-punches in those gloves usually left her gasping. But she wanted more than that today.

  She stepped into the outer stateroom, locked the door, ordered her dogs to lie still. The ship was in some sort of commotion; men’s voices, and their pounding feet, echoed through the floor and ceiling. Perfect, she thought, and launched into a battle drill.

  Thasha was a fine fighter, exceptional in a few respects. But she also had a willful streak. It expressed itself not as anger—Hercól had taught her never to rely on rage—but as impulsiveness. Hercól had detected the flaw at once. Inspiration is a fine ally, but a fatal master, he would say. Be warned, Thasha: I shall make you feel the folly of your impulses, until you learn to know the good ones from the bad. It will sting and you will hate me, but at least you’ll be alive.

  Even bare-handed the drill was exhausting, full of leaps and blocks and whirling jabs. With the heavy gloves it became so taxing that Thasha could think of nothing else. The world emptied of everything but sweat, poise, balance, the duel with her unseen foes. She fought in circles. Thump thump! went her fists against her father’s reading chair. Each glove like a stone mallet in her hand.

  When she completed the routine, she began it again. Faster, girl! scolded Hercól’s voice in her head. It’s your blood they want to spill! Her heartbeat as sharp and urgent as the blows. At last, almost delirious, she ran to the wall and pulled down one of the crossed swords issued to her father decades ago when he became an admiral. It was a thin blade, but in her gauntleted hands it felt like a six-foot Becturian saber. In a perfect fury of concentration she fought her way once more about the chamber, slashing, thrusting, Hercól’s voice goading her, pitiless when she missed the mark. Someone’s trying to cut off your head! he’d shout. Do you see him or don’t you? It’s not a game, you spoiled bitch, you’re striking to kill, you’re striking to kill.

  She came out of the trance with the sword half buried in an imaginary chest. Sickened by what she saw in her mind, as her tutor insisted she must always be. Elated by her own strength. And so tired she could barely stand.

  Her father had thought she might take up painting. A gentle suggestion, he’d said. The day he and Syrarys delivered her to the fanged gate of the Lorg Academy.

  She staggered to the washroom, opened the tap on the cast-iron tub. Painting. Had he ever known her at all? She stripped off her clothes, stepped into the cold salt water and scrubbed herself clean, then rinsed off the salt with a few precious cups of fresh water. She looked at her body in the mirror on the door. Sun-darkened arms, breasts no longer quite a girl’s, muscles quivering with cold. Men had started to notice that body. Falmurqat certainly had. The prince would have lain with her by now, in his own stateroom aboard his long white ship. Instead Pacu Lapadolma was there across the bay, faithful daughter of Arqual, naked in the arms of her Mzithrini husband. For a time.

  Hercól was not in his cabin, nor any of the common rooms. The boys made next for the upper decks. Before they reached the midship guns, however, they found that a great commotion was brewing somewhere above. Men were dashing forward, flowing around both sides of the tonnage hatch and up the ladderways. From above came the sound of voices raised in anger.

  “What is it?” Pazel cried. “A fight?”

  “Fight?” someone echoed, not looking back. “That’s just what I said!”

  “Fight! Fight!”

  Too late, Pazel realized that none of the men knew what they were running toward. But his offhand word seemed to be what everyone wanted, and as they ran it spread around them like an oil fire. Men seized knives and bottles and boarding-pikes, off-duty marines snatched up their spears.

  “A damn riot, that’s what!”

  “Plapps versus Burnscovers!”

  “Can’t be! Rose would skin ’em alive!”

  There was a stampede on the ladderway. Pazel and Neeps were carried upward past the main deck, where still more sailors jammed the stair, and were spat with the rest into the dazzling sunlight near the foremast. The jeers and shouts grew louder. Pazel leaped up on the fife-rail and shielded his eyes.

  “Oh Pitfire,” he said.

  The Jistrolloq was lying alongside Chathrand, barely a yardarm between them, and an even larger crowd of Mzithrinis—all bearing weapons—had thronged to her rail, bellowing and chanting.

  “Waspodin! Waspodin!”

  “What are they saying, Pazel?” Neeps shouted.

  Pazel jumped down again, foreboding like a sickness in his belly. “Don’t repeat it, whatever you do,” he whispered. “They’re chanting ‘murderers.’”

  Neeps’ mouth fell open. At the bow, the taunts were growing louder.

  “All hail the Great Peace,” said a voice from behind them, acidly.

  It was Lady Oggosk. The boys drew instinctively away. They had long counted the old witch among their enemies. True, she had turned on Syrarys and Sandor Ott just a few days ago, and Thasha had some murky idea about her being in a secret order connected to the Lorg. But Pazel didn’t much care. Oggosk was the lifetime servant of Captain Rose, and he wanted nothing to do with her.

  “Do you know what’s happening, Duchess?” he asked cautiously.

  “Treachery, that’s what,” said Oggosk. “Base scheming, and not our own sort. Last night the Father was assaulted.”

  “Whose father?” cried Pazel.

  She looked at him, and seemed to comprehend a great deal. “Not Isiq. Forget Isiq. He was doomed from the start.”

  The shouts were growing dangerous. Pazel stared at the old woman, trying to grasp what her words could possibly mean. At last, sensing that she would tell him no more, he turned to go. But before he had taken a step her claw-like hand seized his arm.

  “Where is her body?” she demanded.

  Pazel pulled his arm out of her grasp. “With friends,” he said, “where it’s going to stay.”

  The boys pushed forward. At the spot where the two ships were nearest the shouts b
ecame deafening. The White Reaper was nearly motionless, lying to on a single topsail beside the anchored Chathrand. She was over half their length, which made her the biggest vessel Pazel had ever seen after the Great Ship herself. And while the Chathrand’s cannon were formidable enough, the Jistrolloq’s were awe inspiring: row upon row of massive forty-eight-pounders; longer weapons for distant targets, thick-bodied “smasher” carronades, gleaming bronze culverins at the stern. Platforms across her topdeck sported giant crossbow-like ballistas, and grappling-guns that could hook another vessel and tear out its rigging. There was no mistaking the Jistrolloq for anything but a weapon of war.

  Fortunately no one was manning those guns: at present the Mzithrinis were content to threaten their old enemies with swords, spears and curses. The Jistrolloq’s deck stood twenty feet lower than the Chathrand’s, so the furious mob had crowded onto the forecastle, and up the masts and shrouds. From all points her men launched the accusation: Waspodin!

  At the Chathrand’s starboard rail some twenty tarboys were squeezing and shoving for a view. Dastu stood among them, calmer than the rest. “Pazel, over here!” he called, making room. “What are they blary saying, mate? What’s that word?”

  Pazel scanned the Mzithrini faces, trying to think how he might get out of answering. At the back of the Jistrolloq’s forecastle stood three black-cloaked sfvantskors. They did not shout, but their eyes had depths of rage beyond any of their countrymen. One was older, a man of thirty or thirty-five. The others were in their twenties, their faces hard and menacing.

  “You’re lookin’ at them sfanksters, ain’t ye?” said another tarboy, whose nickname was Fishhook. “There was more of ’em a minute ago—and one was a girl.”

  “A girl?” said Pazel sharply.

  “Fishhook’s right,” said Dastu. “But the girl didn’t stay on deck very long. Just took one good look at us and ran for the ladderway. I thought she was going to cry.”

  Pazel thought of the masked girl at the wedding, whose voice still echoed in his mind. Could that have been her? Had she been looking for him again?

  The Mzithrinis grew louder. Nor were the Arqualis content to be out-screamed: some accused the Mzithrinis of killing Thasha—hadn’t they pricked her with a knife, just before she collapsed? Others demanded that they hand over Pacu Lapadolma.

  “Blood-drinkers!” they howled, red-faced. “Black rags! Want to get whipped like forty years ago?”

  Pazel could scarcely recognize his shipmates. Were these the same people who had witnessed Arunis’ black magic two days ago? The men who had run in terror from the fleshancs? Where had they found this courage, and this crazy pride? They didn’t know what they were being accused of, but they were damn well going to deny it. And though they hated and feared Arunis, the sight of their old enemies brought out a deeper loathing, almost a mania. Arqual, Arqual, just and true.

  He looked around wildly for an officer. At last he caught sight of Mr. Uskins, pressed bodily against the rail. But to his horror he saw that the first mate was egging the sailors on. “Told you, didn’t I?” Uskins screamed. “Never trust a Sizzy!”

  Suddenly a man on the Jistrolloq pulled himself up into the foremast shrouds. He was a strong, lean man of middle years, and he climbed nimbly, reaching the shielded archery platform called the fighting top in less than a minute. From his bearing and his gold epaulettes, and the way Mzithrini faces began to turn in his direction, Pazel knew he was their commander.

  “That’s Admiral Kuminzat,” said Dastu. “Scary-looking bloke.”

  The officer stretched out his hand above the crowd. At once the Mzithrinis fell silent. Startled, the Arqualis too broke off shouting for an instant. Before they could resume the man pointed his finger and spoke.

  “Deceiver. You have killed the Babqri Father.”

  Kuminzat spoke in his own tongue, and no sign of understanding passed over the Arquali crowd. But all eyes looked where he pointed. There at the back of the mob, silent and until this moment unnoticed, stood Captain Rose. Lady Oggosk had hobbled to his side; Rose leaned down and let her whisper in his ear.

  And suddenly the captain was looking right at Pazel. “Not a word from anyone,” he said aloud, and there was a threatening rumble in his voice. “Get over here, Pathkendle.”

  The crew parted in silence. Pazel took a deep breath and crossed the deck, Neeps at his side.

  As Pazel had already guessed, Rose wanted him to translate the Mzithrini’s words. Pazel did so, and Rose nodded grimly.

  “Tell him we know nothing of any deaths but our own,” he said, loud enough for all to hear. “Tell him only a fool throws accusations like that around—or one with a guilty conscience of his own.”

  “Tell him nothing of the kind!”

  The voice rang out from the Chathrand’s bowsprit. It was Ignus Chadfallow. Despite a stinging distrust of his old benefactor, Pazel was relieved: Chadfallow at least was no hothead—and he too spoke Mzithrini.

  Chadfallow seized the jib-stay and pulled himself onto the planksheer above the crowded forecastle. His voice rang out sharp and clear in Mzithrini: “Admiral Kuminzat. Sailors of the Pentarchy. No one aboard this ship has attacked you.”

  Cries of scorn and disbelief from the Jistrolloq. The doctor pressed on: “We mourn with you, for our beloved Treaty Bride lies dead as well. And no sane man among us blames—”

  “Chadfallow,” cut in Rose. “You’ll speak for this ship when I say so, and not a moment before.”

  The doctor bowed to Rose. But at the same time he shot Pazel a look full of desperate supplication.

  All at once a voice rang out from the Jistrolloq—in broken Arquali. “Great Peace you are promising! Not real! Not a real thing!” It was one of the sfvantskors, an enormous young man with a hard, pinched face. “You are the liars, the old way, the old world that is finished! Bad faith, false doctrines! These will die out everywhere, and better men—”

  “Malabron, it is not your place to speak!” snapped the older sfvantskor. The younger man fell silent, abashed. Then Admiral Kuminzat spoke again.

  “In the darkest hour of the night a beast attacked our Father when he stepped from the shrine. An unnatural creature, an abomination with wings. There was a terrible battle, with fire and spells. In the end the Father slew the thing with the help of his aspirants, but it killed one of them—”

  Kuminzat choked on the last words. He drew a sharp breath and continued.

  “—and gave the Father his death-wound. His disciples could not save him. But before he died, he pointed across the water—at your ship.”

  At his last words the Mzithrinis erupted again, and the Arqualis followed suit. It was all Pazel could do to shout a rough translation into Rose’s ear.

  “Tell him—” boomed Rose, in a voice used to carrying over gales. “Tell him that even we expected the Mzithrin to keep the treaty longer than a day. And then tell him to take his ship off our bows, before we take offense. And to the Pits with his crackpot stories!”

  The Arqualis roared approval: “Tell ’im, tell ’im, tarry!” Pazel winced. He could not imagine something he’d less like to say. Inadvertently he glanced at Chadfallow: the doctor was urgently shaking his head.

  “Do it!” snapped Rose.

  Pazel felt suddenly nauseous. All around him sailors and marines were bellowing encouragement.

  “The captain says,” he began, instantly silencing the crowd, “he says, ah, that he expected the treaty to last longer than a single day—”

  “The boy’s Mzithrini is rusty!” Chadfallow cried. “Allow me to take over, sir—”

  “Is lie,” said the young sfvantskor called Malabron. “Boy speaking fine. Less fine is this doctor.”

  “Carry on, Pathkendle,” said Rose. “Chadfallow, interrupt again and I’ll have you in chains.”

  Suddenly an idea came to Pazel with the force of revelation. He had to tell the Mzithrinis everything, in their language, before they sailed away. Thasha’s father might not succe
ed, and if he didn’t there would be no one else. It had to be Pazel, and it had to be now. But why was he so dizzy?

  “That Ormali runt,” sneered Uskins. “He’s stalling!”

  Neeps put a hand on his arm, steadying him. Pazel bent over, hands on his knees. The noise, the heat, the stink of angry men: was it making him ill?

  And then all at once he knew better. He looked up at Neeps. “Oh gods above, mate,” he whispered, covering his ears.

  Neeps understood in a flash. “It can’t be! It’s just been three days!”

  “I feel it,” said Pazel. “Oh credek, not here, not with so many people—”

  “Captain!” shouted Neeps. “My mate’s sick! Let Chadfallow translate, Pazel can’t—”

  “Sergeant,” said Rose.

  Drellarek barked an order. Suddenly Turachs were dragging Neeps and Chadfallow away. Rose took Pazel by the shirt with both hands and hoisted him bodily atop the Chathrand’s inverted longboat. His huge hand closed like a vise on the back of Pazel’s neck.

  “Speak!” he thundered.

  “Lie!” shouted Neeps in Sollochi as he vanished down the ladderway.

  Rose was no fool, Pazel thought. He would know Pazel was twisting the message, just by the Sizzies’ reaction to it. I’ll have to get away from him first. Otherwise he’ll choke me before I can explain a thing.

  But how long would his own mind obey him?

  Pazel cleared his throat, and shouted: “Captain Rose says there’s a treaty in place, and no reason to feel offended, because after all, one of you married one of us, and we’re happy and glad and expect the most honorable—babies.”

  Kuminzat stared at Pazel in disbelief. Some of the sfvantskors were shaking their heads.

  “Tell him we didn’t kill his bleedin’ Father,” said Rose.

  “He’s very sorry the Father bled. To death.”

  “And we can settle this with cannon if he doubts my word.”

  “My word, those are unsettling cannon.”

  “And there’s no demonology practiced on the Chathrand.”

  “There is no demonology practiced on—SQUAAAGH! CHATHWA! GRAFMEZPRAUGHAAAAA!”